


Camulodunum

by FracturedIron



Series: Paris Burning writings [2]
Category: Paris Burning (thecitysmith)
Genre: Death, Gen, Suicide, War, cities 'verse, colonisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FracturedIron/pseuds/FracturedIron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fall of Camulodunum</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camulodunum

**Author's Note:**

> My dad had the TV on and the first episode of Battlefield Britain was showing and I wasn’t really interested until it started talking about Boudica and the razing of Camulodunum and my inspiration was really fired up, I could practically see Camulodunum down in the temple with the Romans as it burned.

London dreamed of her red-haired fairy queen, Paris of Apollo in all his golden glory… Camulodunum, too, dreamt of a figure, but for him there would be no omens of love. 

At first there’s only the fire, engulfing his whole world until it’s all that exists, red-orange-gold and the figure right at the red-hot beating heart of it. He can’t see who it is, whether it’s even man or woman, for the figure’s flame itself. At first no features are visible, when suddenly two white burning eyes sear into life, and a gaping white maw tears itself open in a scream, but it’s no human sound, only the deafening roar of the flames-

And then Camulodunum would awake, shaking and sweating… _Just a dream. What City does not fear fire?_ But it would be many cups of wine before the taste of smoke and ashes was washed from his mouth. 

At least the wine was one thing he could thank the Romans for.

Back when he was Camulodunon, he’d been a fierce warrior, as proud and wild as his Trinovantes. And he’d been proud of them, his very first citizens, so proud – the strongest, mightiest Celtic tribe of all Britain! No City had ever been so proud of their children. Even when the Catuvellauni conquered them, again and again, it only stoked the flames of their pride and anger, and every time Camulodunon had soared on it, a phoenix reborn. Together they had charged into battle, the City clinging to the back of a chariot, long, dark, greasy hair flying, sword and spear flashing and his mouth agape in a joyous, roaring song.

He’d believed them gods, invincible, eternal – and to his cost. For a City should never idolise its people. 

When the Romans invaded, he couldn’t believe it when his king surrendered, had thundered and rage, all to no avail. But defiant to the last, when they forced him to meet the Roman invaders, he’d strode straight up to Claudius, glared down at him… and spat in his face. 

They sheared his long dark hair off as punishment.

For once, his legendary temper proved useless and Camulodunum could only watch in despair as he was colonised, as they enslaved his people or drove them away, took their land, broke their backs and souls under the whip and chain, filled his streets with their ageing Roman veterans and families. His once taut muscles waste away and sag, and Camulodunum, who’d never run from any battle, flinched at the sight of his Briton slaves and their thoughts when they saw him.

_Look at him. Monument to the Romans, getting fat off our oppression. Collaborator. Traitor. That’s not our City anymore, he’s whore of the Romans now, their pet. Roman Capital!_

He hit the bottle and hit it hard. Anything to drown out their hate for him.

But a small part of him still dreamed of his people’s old glories, still hoped, still believed, for he could feel the restlessness in the air, in his people…

Something coming. He could sense it. And yet it made him uneasy, for the dreams kept coming, again and again, dreams that filled him with no sense of triumph. Only fear.

When the Trinovantes first charged into his city he rejoiced, crying and laughing even as his Roman citizens fled, screamed, died, staggering under the sheer onslaught of the slaughter. Even as his streets were burnt and torn apart, until he thought his bones would break and his skin was red, raw and weeping with countless burns, he still laughed. For his people – his true people – had returned to him, and they were glorious, so glorious, his warriors, oh yes, as he always knew they were, his proud, beautiful people. How he longed to be one with them again, to feel what they felt, for it hurt so much, the flames, the terror, the death – so much death! – but it was only temporary, it’d be worth it in the end. _You are strong, strong as your people and you can survive this, you’re Capital, and when all this is over you will be mighty and whole again…_

“For the Trinovantes!” he screamed, and that caught their attention. But when they looked at him, he’s confused, saw them shout and point, and suddenly a horde was after him, spears and swords stabbing and slashing, tearing his flesh open like they tore his streets _and they cry out, they cry out-_

He was forced to flee, hounded into the temple by the people he’d once fought with, once worshipped, and forced to hide with the people he hated.

For two days the Romans hid in that temple, and they turned to their City, crying and begging for guidance, looking to him to save them. But their City remained unheeding, and soon enough they backed away, frightened by his wild, staring eyes and the words, chanted over and over in an endless litany. 

“Down with Camulodunum.”

***

That night, he dreamt of the fire one last time, only this time, it was different. The figure was finally visible – a woman now of flesh and blood – but one with fire in her hair and in her eyes, a fire that burned with a need so great it would devour everything in its path.

The fire of rage.

The fire of revenge.

Queen Boudica.

***

When the flames began to consume the temple, Camulodunum finally stirred from his corner, a dead man waking. Outside, he could hear the baying of the Britons ( _his no longer_ ), cheering for his destruction; it was that sound that crushed the last bit of hope in him. Rising to his feet, ignoring the screams and sobs of the Romans around him, for a moment he was as he used to be, the grand warrior, head held high and his smile a horror, a bloody rictus. 

He had hardly any power, this temple all he had left – but it would be enough. 

He’d had his people broken, taken, his streets colonised by soft Romans and he’d now suffered the ultimate betrayal; he’d thought himself broken. But Camulodunum was a warrior. And he’d be damned if he went down quietly. 

He spread himself through the burning, creaking stones of the temple, grimacing at the flames but pressing on, seeping himself into the very stones until he could barely distinguish himself, man from rock. 

With a howl, he brought the temple – flames and all – crashing down upon himself.


End file.
